Kintsugi
by Robin Birdie
Summary: Inevitable. Will knew that - whatever choice he made - it would always lead to this moment. He only hoped that his confession to Hannibal would save them both . . . (One-Shot)


**Kintsugi**

"I have a concept of you," said Hannibal.

The table was set perfectly. It spoke volumes of his host's tastes and preferences, enough that every single decoration was posed to reveal subtle hints of his personality. The vegetables were rare and exotic, some that Will had never before seen until his time in the older man's company, whilst opposite such a dish was an assortment of seafood that was a concession to Will's personal tastes. Ever the host, Hannibal was always accommodating.

It would have been appealing at any other time, but today the food tasted like ash within his mouth and the wine felt thick like blood. Those were associations that he could not bear. There were too many deaths not to feel their weight heavy upon his shoulders, whilst the plan rested so tenuously upon so many variables that many more could soon fall fast upon them, and – beyond all else – this was a betrayal. He felt sick to think that he could feel anything akin to duty or sympathy for this man – _this killer – _and yet the sense of it was there, enough that to even look in Hannibal's way made him paranoid that he may give something away.

Hannibal continued: "Just as you have a concept of me."

Will glanced to the main display centre of the table. Inside the array of bones sat a small pomegranate, which he thought was likely intentional. He knew that Hannibal was trying to tell him something, perhaps that this was the start of a new life for the both of them, and that through death they could be reborn, but instead he saw only temptation. This would be his descent into hell. He could consume the meats and follow the devil himself, or stay loyal to Jack – to himself – and let the pieces fall where they may. He felt lost.

"Neither of us ideal," Will said.

There was a pause after he spoke, which gave Will a chance to look away and avoid Hannibal's considering gaze. The man was impeccably dressed, with his suit a rather handsome navy and red that complemented his light colouring well, and it was no wonder that he often intimidated so many people. Will fingered the stem of the wineglass out of need to distract himself, and the cool material beneath his fingertips grounded him and gave him something new to focus upon. The way Hannibal's hair had fallen out of place – just slightly – gave him the impression of humanity, an illusion of which that was nearly believable.

"Both of us are too curious about too many things for ideals," Hannibal mused.

Another pause.

It was an unbearable part about their conversation that Will had begrudgingly come to accept, for it seemed that each man was compelled to think through their words before speaking a single thought aloud, as if the slightest misspoken phrase would destroy the fragile relationship built between them. The dark room added to the sense of intimacy. It made everything seem more real and each man seemed more alive, and every detail – from the slight stubble on Hannibal's chin to the aroma of the wine – felt more intense for it.

"Is it ideal that Jack die?" Hannibal asked.

"It's necessary. What happens to Jack has been preordained."

Will took a sip of the wine. It was another gift given to him by what some would call a friend, others an enemy, and he enjoyed the moment for what it was. He never before found himself a connoisseur of wine, perhaps he never would again, and yet that was perhaps where the meaning and the value came into play. The rich autumnal scent, as well as the sharp and somehow sweet taste . . . they would be forever etched into his memory, forever associated with this man and this house, and he would be forever changed by them both.

"We could disappear now. Tonight." Hannibal swallowed as he spoke. "Feed your dogs. Leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

"This would be our last supper," Will added with a stifled laugh.

"Of this life." Hannibal looked away. "I served lamb."

"Sacrificial?"

Will hated that he found such humour in the situation. It was a choice between laughter and tears, but neither seemed appropriate. There was a burning rage inside of him that sought for justice, that longed to side with Jack to do what was right, and yet a part of him longed for the kind of companionship that Hannibal offered, where he could finally be with someone that understood him and could stand by him as an equal. He nearly missed what Hannibal said next, but he caught the subtle uncertainty in the tone, likely feigned:

"I don't need a sacrifice. Do you?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

"You have already sacrificed so much, Will. The child that was yours and the child that could have been, the freedom that you took for granted and the safety of those closed bars. Do you not deserve a chance for something far greater than what fate has bestowed upon you?"

"Greater than what? The things that I lost are the things that you _took_ from me."

"So you seek for retribution? A gift usually from the divine."

"We're far from divine, aren't we?"

Will took another sip. There was once a time when he would have shied away; he would have rubbed at his eyes and given a nervous smile, before he would have looked away and avoided looking at Hannibal in fear of being judged. He wondered whether he was being tested, for these trials had tested him far too much already, and this seemed the moment that would determine his entire future . . . his _life_. It was easy to forget that he lived only because Hannibal _wanted_ him to live. He lived because it was convenient.

"Jack wants . . . justice."

"Is that what you want?" Hannibal asked. "Justice?"

"I want the truth."

Hannibal gave a smile that was equal parts alluring and threatening. It was a smirk that spread to his lips and yet not to his eyes, enough that it was made clear to Will that everything hinged upon his answer. It would be so easy to lie and to let his plan continue in motion, but the strong pang of curiosity and desire was hard to repress, and the longer he pondered upon his choices . . . the more he _wanted_ to give in. The sole consideration was that running away with Hannibal would be to run away with Abigail's murderer.

He tightened his hands around the stem of the glass, whilst he felt his lips twitch up and down continuously as he fought between smiling and frowning, unable to decide how to feel. The anticipation of a child had been taken from him, almost as if Hannibal were nothing more than a menopausal woman, jealous of the lover that could bear forth a child that they could not, desperate for some tie . . . some anchor . . . some way to lock their partner to their side, but unable to do it. It was as if he had taken his child and Abigail out of jealousy, but jealousy wasn't a good enough reason. He had_ everything_ taken from him . . .

"To the truth then," said Hannibal, "and all its consequences."

"You fostered co-dependency. You swore to me that you wouldn't lie. Lies of omission? Yes, but not direct lies. I suppose it only . . . _polite_ . . . that I deliver the same courtesy in return. I think it's time we made it clear where we stand in this courtship, don't you?"

"I think it is safe to say that you have piqued my interest."

"Jacks _knows_ Hannibal."

Will turned his head to look at Hannibal. He kept his eyes lowered enough to look just beneath the eyes of his friend, but allowed his gaze to stray just enough to judge the older man's reaction. It was always so easy to empathise, to get inside the mind of another, but Hannibal wasn't like any other mind . . . the only thing predictable was his unpredictability. The doctor could just as much decide to kill him for his deceit as he would to forgive him, but he would not deceive himself that such forgiveness would not come at a cost.

There was the temptation to down the wine, but he knew such a thing would be considered _rude_ to the older man and he wanted to give him no reason to grow angry. He instead took a long sip and tried to avoid the look that Hannibal sent him, as if he watched every swallow and taste with avid interest, and such attention made him feel far more awkward than he preferred. The room felt warm and the scent of the food was rich enough to overwhelm him, but he could not help but to think back upon Abigail and the loss of the only daughter he had ever known, and suddenly death was not as chilling a prospect as he first thought.

They sat in silence for a long moment, until Hannibal sat back and crossed his legs, which sent a brief rustle of fabric through the air and caused Will's attention to divert. The expression on the doctor's face was hard to read, but the slight purse to his lips and hardness to his eyes showed that he felt an iota of irritation, which – all things considered – was quite the achievement when it took so much to break that veneer of perfection.

"Is that why you lured Jack to me?"

"Don't play coy, Dr Lecter," said Will. "You know as well as I do that you are only caught when you _want_ to be caught, as a close friend of yours once told me. I _lured_ Jack to you for Abigail's sake, not for my own. You _owe_ her some sort of justice."

"I suppose Abigail is as much my responsibility as yours."

"I was not the one to dismember her body."

"Yet her blood remains on your hands."

"Indeed it does."

He took a sip of the wine. It was necessary in order to stave off the feeling of breathlessness, as his throat had already taken to closing and convulsing. There was a bitter sense of nausea, enough that he could take the acid at the back of his throat, and the choking sensation reminded him of an upper endoscopy . . . no . . . it reminded him of something far worse. He could almost taste the blood; the faint coppery sensation so real that it may as well have been, but combined with the feeling of hard cartilage against his teeth.

No, he would not regress. The clarity in his mind was enough to remind him that the past was finished, so that these feelings were simply phantom reactions to a perceived threat, and yet the deep fear lingered. He was responsible for Abigail's death, but there was the desperate fear of what truly happened to her and whether he ingested her as he believed, because that was a guilt he _knew_ would destroy him. It was bad enough to see her in his dreams; he was sure that her ghost haunted him, angry at the mysteries that persevered and the lack of justice over what was done to her, and each night he awoke with the pain fresh and new.

"The wolf and the bear can be trained to work together," he muttered.

"I am afraid that you will need to explain your meaning to me, William."

"What I mean should be clear," he said coldly. "It is not in our natures to work as a pack, especially when we are such solitary creatures by nature. It is mere _circumstance_ and _necessity_ that have brought us to this moment, Dr Lecter. I don't fool myself into thinking that – because we are on the same side – we are somehow working towards the same goal, because we want very different things. You want a friend, whereas I want . . ."

"Justice."

"_Justice._"

He threw back his head and ran a hand over his face. It was not too long ago that he spoke of these things with Abigail . . . with Alana . . . even Freddy had questioned the rights and wrongs of his actions, but somewhere he forgot his search for justice. He gave into these subtle manipulations, instead manipulating in return and playing the game that was set before him, until the two became entwined in a strange dance. They were close, intimate even, but now there was only one obstacle to their union. It was their different motivations.

If only Will could want what Hannibal wanted, they would be spared this all . . .

"Do you believe our friendship broken?"

"Don't you?" Will scoffed. "Broken or not, it's still there."

"Perhaps all the more beautiful for the cracks in its façade? There is a Japanese art called _kintsugi_ in which the imperfections are admired for their aesthetic value, as opposed to being disguised to the naked eye. The belief is that these cracks, now visible for all to see, display the history of the piece and highlight its worth, for it is not something disposable and transient, but instead something worth repairing and worth keeping. It is beauty."

"You're saying that the scars we have dealt each other have added to our friendship? I suppose it is healthier to acknowledge those flaws than to ignore them, although clearly Alana leans more towards the denial aspect. Still, denial won't bring back what is lost."

"Do you not think that it is possible for something greater to be reborn?"

"Perhaps, but do you think me ready for such a gift?"

Hannibal leaned forward and gave a smile, but the expression felt far too hard to decipher for Will's liking and he gave a frown in return. There were those that believed it easy to understand and empathise with others, but it wasn't an instinctual or innate ability, instead it was one that required constant training and maintaining. Will had taught himself how to use his gifts, but the more he used them then the more exhausted he became. It was like reading an overly complicated piece of prose. He may have been able, but it was still a chore.

"I do not think you trust me," said Hannibal

There was a soft laugh from Will, which felt alien upon his lips, but when he looked again to Hannibal – poised and collected – he saw a spark of disapproval that made him feel a pang of guilt that he loathed himself for feeling. He fell forward and rested his hands on the arms of the chair, whilst Hannibal gave a hiss of breath and watched intently. It was obvious that Hannibal _wanted_ to be trusted, just as he _wanted_ an unconditional friendship, but how would he react when Will denied him those two things? Will couldn't trust him.

"I _want_ to trust you," he said. "I hate myself for it."

They sat in silence for a long while. The sounds outside were muffled, but the wind blew enough at the window that it was almost music in itself, whilst Will thought – deep in his mind – that he might hear sirens at any moment. The scent of food hung in the air, whilst Will thought about the cracks in their relationship and how they may be repaired, and he wondered whether they could be stronger for it. He would need to forgive Hannibal, but _wanting_ to forgive was not the same as forgiveness. Hannibal would hold that against him.

Hannibal stood from his position at the head of the table, before he lifted himself onto his feet and came to stand beside Will with an unassuming pose. The tips of his fingers touched the back of the chair behind Will, whilst his left hand came to wrap around the younger man's wrist in a rather gentle – yet firm – manner, but these were not the actions of a man seeking to comfort another. No, this was an act of intimidation. There was only the illusion of civility, but in truth he knew that Hannibal held complete control over the situation. He could try to force Hannibal out of his space, but the older man was incredibly strong and would likely give as good as he got, so there was no guarantee Will would win . . .

"Come with me," said Hannibal. "I have something for you."

"Are you going to kill me, Hannibal?"

"Not today, I promise you."

A part of him believed it. He knew that it would be foolish to trust Hannibal, but the psychiatrist would consider it the height of rudeness to lie so blatantly to Will, especially when he so greatly desired to court Will and win him as an equal partner. They existed in a state of imbalance at that moment; Will betrayed his trust by conspiring with Jack, but he also placed Abigail higher than his friend, which would be unforgivable to a man like Hannibal. It was not enough to think of him in high regard, as he wanted _everything_ that Will had to give.

Abigail was their daughter, as such she ought to be ranked somewhere _below_ both parents in terms of so many things, and whilst they had been her parents – partners, equals, a team – it was enough for Hannibal to keep Will placated and 'protected'. It was different now. Abigail had become a martyr for her death, whilst her executioner had fallen from his pedestal and existed as nothing more than a murderer, and – as such – their 'divorce' had been messy indeed, enough so that attempted murder and wild accusations seemed almost the norm. Will was no longer safe, even if the 'safety' Hannibal afforded him before was a denial of his basic rights and made him nothing more than a scapegoat. He had every reason to be afraid.

He felt his head grow light, so that the air appeared to grow thin and the dark room felt oppressive in the night, and when he looked up he saw Hannibal impossibly close and swore that he could almost feel the other's breath. The taste of the food was rich within his mouth, so that he was reminded of the evening meal, and his body felt light enough that he wondered whether he had been poisoned . . . no . . . Hannibal would not spoil the meat or the meal, as to do so would be coarse and a breach of trust. Will drew in a deep breath, but Hannibal merely stepped away and instead offered forth a hand. Will ignored it.

In a few shaky movements, he managed to stand of his own volition. Hannibal placed his hands upon his upper arms, forever resorting to his medical training out of instinct, but Will allowed the warm and firm hands to hold him. He looked down, which enabled him to use the rim of his glasses to block eye contact, before he gave a subtle nod of his head to say that he would be willing to follow. Hannibal stepped backwards to give him some needed space.

"You once said what we had was far removed from friendship," said Hannibal.

"You have an unconventional view of what friendship entails," Will replied tersely. "I was left to wonder whether your idea of 'friendship' is merely an amusement so deep that you will allow a person to live, even if that doesn't necessarily disqualify torture and false imprisonment from said relationship. Tell me, how far would you have gone to protect your secret from Jack? Would you be willing to kill a friend?"

"I have never before had someone that I could call a friend. If it were a choice between my life and yours, I would gladly forfeit yours to preserve mine, but surely survival instinct cannot be held against me? I have years of evolutionary coding to support my choice."

"You are evading the question, Dr Lecter."

"No, I would not kill a friend."

Will smiled weakly. He looked from side to side, as he pondered upon those that had fallen before him and those that Hannibal had lied to, and – as his eyes moved – he caught sight of a curious hole on the floor just underneath the dining table. It was strange, almost like a bullet hole, and yet in such a place that it clearly couldn't be caused by any gun. It drew his attention and he began to realise that he might not escape the night alive. Beverly sprang to mind, but he forced her back in order to avoid another wave of grief.

"Lead the way," he said.

There was a slight bow to Hannibal's head, before he gestured for Will to come forward, almost as if he expected Will to lead instead. It was soon clear that Hannibal intended for Will to follow, as he moved with a grace that was wasted on a doctor, although – perhaps – it was a gift for a surgeon to move with such precision and skill. The sound of his perfectly created shoes made soft noises upon the wooden boards, and it proved a relaxing beat.

It took a few moments to realise that Hannibal was leading him upstairs. There had never been an opportunity to view this part of the house, at least according to Will's memory, although he would willingly admit to losing both time and events in the harsh years that he endured recently. He felt his heart spike and race, because this would be the place where he would be broken . . . he felt it in his bones. Why else would he be led upstairs? There were those that cast ignorant aspersions on Hannibal's sexuality, based upon outdated stereotypes, but he knew that Hannibal would make no advances under such dark circumstances.

They came to a stop outside a bedroom door. It was enough to make Will's stomach sink within him, so that he felt a strange weakness come over his body, and – whilst he managed to maintain a façade of coolness and detachment – he wondered whether Hannibal would see how close he felt to fainting. He gained great confidence in this past year, but he was not immune to fear or to confusion. The palms on his hands felt sweaty, whilst his skin felt prickly and cold, and – behind him – Hannibal leaned in dangerously close.

"Prepare yourself, Will."

"If this is a proposition, now is not the time."

"Still ever as humorous as ever, I see."

The door opened wide. It revealed one person: Abigail.

It was enough to cause Will's heart to stop within his chest. He looked at her for a long moment, wondering whether he was hallucinating again, but there she stood . . . real . . . _alive_. The clothes that she wore were not her usual style, as if someone had dressed her as they would a child or doll, forgetting her choices to impose their own, and the expression on her face was one of true horror and surprise. In a brief moment, he did not care what she had been through or what she faced. He only cared that she was alive.

Will practically ran to her and held her tight in his arms, where she then placed her arms around him in turn and held him back. He could feel the way her hands balled into fists, as if afraid to touch him in case he disappeared like a dream or distant memory, and he felt the same way as he gripped her against him. There were no words to describe how he felt. The hair that brushed against his nose should have irritated him, but all he could think about was how the scent was not quite Abigail and instead closer to Hannibal. He wondered whether she had been here all this time, a present hidden out of the way until he was deemed a worthy recipient, so close and yet just out of reach! He never wanted to let her go again.

"Abigail," he whispered.

"I didn't know what else to do," she sobbed. "So I just did as he told me."

He could feel her shoulder heave with the force of her sobs. The tears wet his shoulder and felt cold on his skin, whilst all he could do was to stroke her hair and breathe deeply against her, as he tried to remind himself that she was alive and he could _help_ her. It was hard to remain composed, because he could feel the tears in his eyes and felt his breath leave him entirely. The air had been stolen from him. Abigail had been the cause of his grief and guilt, just as she had been his motivating force and reason to live, and now – after all the loss and devastation – he had her in his life again. It was too much to bear.

"This was your gift for me," muttered Will.

The sense of revulsion hit him like a physical blow, so that he felt his throat clench and tighten to the extent that he believed he would be violently sick. He reached out with shaking hands to touch Abigail's cheeks, before he stepped back and held her face, and as he looked into her eyes he realised that he had been emotionally manipulated in the worst possible way. Hannibal had framed him for Abigail's death to protect himself from capture, but then allowed Will to believe her dead . . . keeping her prisoner . . . only to – what? Use her as bait or worse? Use her as the _lure_ to get Will on his side? He had been rewarded with the life of his daughter, but that 'reward' came hard upon the heels of a 'trial'.

"You took her from me. You took her from me to _test_ my loyalties."

"We could have been a family, Will."

Will turned slowly to face Hannibal, as he let his hands gently fall away from Abigail. He kept his position in front of her, so as to protect her from her other father should the need arise, and he felt his heart race rapidly. The fear was absolute. Abigail let out choked sobs behind him, enough that he was nearly distracted, but his training as a police officer and in the FBI kept him in control enough to stay aware. Hannibal smiled at him in an almost broken and pained manner, but stepped closer. It was too close for comfort.

"We couldn't leave without you," Hannibal continued.

He stepped forward again. This time he placed a hand upon Will's face, which felt surprisingly warm and soft against his bearded cheek, and Will couldn't help but look in absolutely horror and shock at the man before him. It was as if Hannibal had been transformed from a killer into the devil himself, using Will's worst fears against him and now feigning intimacy as if it were all okay. He felt as if his heart may burst, whilst upon his lips he felt the breath of the man that had inflicted this pointless agony upon him, but all under the pretence that it was for a greater cause . . . that it was all for Will.

"Hannibal, I –"

The kiss came first. It was surprisingly chaste and merely a press to his lips, enough that he felt the other man and realised the extent of his feelings, but not enough to cause Will any distress or conflict. He had no time to react or reciprocate, although he felt fairly sure that his feelings for Hannibal were platonic only, and even if there had been more . . . this complete betrayal of trust left him feeling no romance in the least. He wondered if this betrayal was how Hannibal felt, knowing he had been played, even though Will eventually came clean.

Just as Hannibal's lips pulled away, there came a great pain. It was so sharp and direct that it caused Will to cry out in a staggered and high-pitched voice, one that he could barely believe was his own, and suddenly his mouth opened wide to gasp in air that seemed to no longer exist. It was a red-hot pain. He knew it at once for what it was, even as his head reared back and instinct told him to move away, enough that he hunched over and made to grab at the wound, and he knew that he had been stabbed. The pain was too much to bear. The blood was hot and pooled around the wound. He would die here. He would die.

Hannibal moved the knife to dig deeper, so that the blood poured and flowed down his shirt and trousers, and the wound was now gaping in his side and wide open to the elements. He shot out his right hand to grab onto Hannibal's shoulder, desperate for some anchor to hold himself upright and cling onto waking reality. He longed for this to be a dream. He longed for this to be nothing but a hallucination. Hannibal merely removed the knife and used his free hand to clench around Will's neck, pulling him into an intimate embrace.

"Time did reverse," said Hannibal. "The teacup that I shattered did come together. A place was made for Abigail in your world. Do you understand?"

Will couldn't find the energy to speak.

Hannibal held him so tightly, with one hand entwined in his brown locks and the other that still held the knife and pressed itself against his back, and – in a confused moment of blood-loss – Will wondered why he simply didn't just drop the knife. It hurt. _God, it hurt._ He would gladly trade the pain of being shot for this fresh hell, because the gasps and coughs he made were so emasculating and made him sound no more than a victim . . . another victim of this monster. He – he wanted the pain to stop, especially when he finally found Abigail . . .

He pushed his head into Hannibal's neck and tried to breathe.

Will could only shake his head in confusion.

"A place was made for all of us," Hannibal whispered. "Together."

Will felt his head being pushed back, so no longer did they embrace, and suddenly – in a deep and dark part of his soul – he realised the reason why Hannibal pushed him away. It wasn't so that he could hear the steady trickle of his blood leaving his body, or even to see the way it trickled and formed a small pool upon the floor, but rather so that he would _know_ that Hannibal was figuratively pushing him away. He was being punished for betraying a friend.

Will wondered . . . he wondered whether it would have been different . . . he wondered whether it would have been different, had his motivations been _for_ Hannibal and had he _repented_ for Hannibal . . . had he -? Did he seal his fate by placing another before Hannibal?

"I wanted to surprise you." Hannibal's hand at his throat held him upright. "And you -? You wanted to surprise me. You lied to me, Will. You wanted me to be caught, even if you changed your mind far too late into the game. Tell me, are you surprised, Will?"

"I – I – I c-can't –"

Hannibal let go.

Will fell to the floor with a muffled scream. The pain was too unbearable! It gnawed at him and spread, until the warmth of his blood threatened to turn cold, sending shivers through his body, and he knew – despite everything – all that he did led to this moment. The taste of iron on his lips . . . the smell of metal in the air . . . all because he lied to Hannibal and worked with Jack for so long to catch him. He recalled that Hannibal never pretended to be anything that he was, but – but Will . . . Will had pretended. Will had lied.

_Inevitable._

He struggled to crawl to the wall, as he knew that elevation would help the bleeding to reduce and possibly keep him conscious for longer, but then he saw it . . . Abigail came towards him to see to his wound . . . she came at him! The look of terror on her face made him want to call out to reassure her, but he couldn't speak. He felt his eyes close and his body broke into a cold sweat, but Abigail stopped midway. She seemed caught between her fathers.

"Now that you know me," said Hannibal, "_see me_."

There were tears in Hannibal's eyes as he stood over Will. It was frightening to see him look so human, because it sent both a spark of pride and guilt through Will's entire being, enough that he couldn't help but laugh through his broken and choked cries of pain. He finally had the revenge he so often wished, but – but this . . . it came at the cost of hurting his friend, one that he could have experienced everything with . . . the world.

Hannibal was a surgeon in another life, which made Will wonder whether he would live or die . . . either would be entirely up to Hannibal . . . he knew where to cut the deepest to test the skin of his victim, without ever endangering a life . . . he knew where to cut to hurt.

"I gave you a rare gift, but you didn't want it."

"D-didn't I?"

"You would deny me my life."

"No! N-no," Will gasped. "N-not your life, no."

"My freedom then! You would take that from me." Hannibal looked away and gazed at Abigail curiously, whilst Will let out several broken moans of pain. "Confine me to a prison cell . . . do you believe you could change me? The way I've changed you?"

"I – _ah_ – already d-did!"

There was a long silence that followed. Will strained to keep his eyes open, even if the edges of his vision blurred and the world seemed to dip in and out, and meanwhile Hannibal's lips quivered and moved as if on the verge of saying one final word. There was moisture on his lips, whilst his eyes shimmered almost beautifully in the low light, and Will couldn't help but smile back. Hannibal was on the verge of tears. He had an impact on Hannibal's life, so that – even if he died – he knew Hannibal would always remember him . . . _scarred_ by him.

"Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment. When the teacup shatters –" Hannibal gave a small smile and a tear fell "– I forgive you, Will. Will you forgive me?"

A cold realisation washed over Will's body.

"O-oh, n-no. D-don't . . . don't."

Will heard himself say 'no' over and over. It was the strangest feeling; he watched himself as if he were no longer in his body, whilst the word came out without any control or intention, and suddenly he felt _powerless_. He was finally a victim. He struggled to move, but every jolt of his body sent agonising pain throughout his abdomen and forced him to hold back a breath, and every time he looked up he saw that smirk. That – that abominable smirk!

Hannibal turned to face Abigail, before he reached out a hand in anticipation of her. A tear ran down her cheek, clear as the pain that Will felt, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out to her and wipe it away, but – but he couldn't move. He knew that there was a risk that he could bleed out, if he moved his hand away from the wound. He vaguely heard Hannibal command her to come to him, but the words didn't quite register to his mind, because all he could focus upon was the excruciating sense of dread. He could see it coming. He knew it would come, but he could do nothing – _nothing_ – to stop it. He could only watch.

Abigail took his hand. He turned her around. Will could only look up and see her looking down at him, with a similar look of horror in her eyes, and he knew – as she knew – that this was the end and this would be all there would ever be. He would lose her again. He would grieve _again_. Hannibal pulled Abigail's back against his chest, and then pressed the knife to the scar on her throat. He – he meant it . . . he would kill her . . . he – he would watch her die and he – he would be unable to – to – to! Will shook his head and wept.

"No. _No._ No, no, no, no!"

The blood sprung forth like a fountain, which brought forth memories of other murders and other crime-scenes, and he saw the pain in her eyes . . . the pain he felt . . . father and daughter bleeding together, unable to save one another. Hannibal didn't flinch. He didn't even acknowledge Will's impassioned screams or Abigail's suffering. The blood came. Abigail screamed as best as she could, whilst she pressed hands to her throat.

"No – _ugh – _A – Abi – _ah _–"

Hannibal dropped her to the floor. She gasped for air and writhed with the rapid blood loss, whilst Hannibal ignored her to step forward and bend over before Will. He couldn't breathe, as the enraged and terrified sobs broke forth from his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to save her, but – but how could he when he couldn't even save himself? Still, better to die with Abigail than to lose her again. He – he needed to get by her side! This was unfair; it was cruel beyond reason . . . Hannibal could have just killed him. He could have spared her!

"You can make it all go away."

Will could see him so close, with his impassive face just inches away . . . perfect hair now mussed and shirt now stained with blood . . . he – he could reach out and attack back, but he hadn't the strength. Hannibal was testing him, surely? This – this couldn't be real. Abigail was bleeding out just behind Hannibal . . . he needed to get to her . . .

"Put your head back," said Hannibal. "Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream."

_No, you won't win. I won't let you win._

He kept his head low.

Hannibal seemed to sense his resistance, as he stepped away and moved back. There was no way that Will would willingly choose death over life, not least when Abigail needed him, and a strange – mutilated, broken and twisted – part of him couldn't leave Hannibal alone. He knew in time he would forgive Hannibal, just as Hannibal forgave him, and this broken moment between them would be mended and the scars would exist as memories only. They would be more beautiful for them, like a fixed Japanese bowl . . .

He didn't see where Hannibal went, but he could see Abigail . . . so close and yet so far . . . and needed to get to her. He ignored the pain in his side. He – he tried to crawl to her, desperate to be by her side, even as he felt the carpet soaked with blood against his body and the blood seep through his clothing . . . soon his body was covered in blood . . . he felt it all over him. Abigail's blood merged with his and covered him until he was painted with the substance, even as he sought so hard to staunch the bleeding and save them, and soon he was by her side at last. He placed his right hand on her neck. He kept his left on his stomach wound. He – he needed to save her, but to save her required saving himself . . .

The blood ran through his fingers. He – he couldn't breathe . . . the world was growing dark, whilst nearby he could hear Hannibal fidget with something that sounded plastic . . . he heard a click, barely audible from above his groans and Abigail's gurgling . . . he wanted to cry, but the tears would no longer come. He felt pain. He knew she felt pain, too. Then he saw Hannibal's feet next to him and sensed the other man stand over him.

"Will came to pay me a visit, Jack. He would like to talk to you."

Will saw a phone fall beside him. The screen glowed bright and showed the name 'Jack' in clear letters, whilst an electronic voice shouted out and asked questions to which he could not answer. He couldn't reach for the phone, because so do so would be to kill either himself or Abigail . . . or both . . . he tried to call out, but he was too weak. He was too weak.

"We could have been happy, Will."

Hannibal walked away. The footsteps were soft and almost inaudible, until he heard the sound of a door close . . . his hope going with it . . . he hoped Jack would send someone in time, else they would both die. Abigail would die . . . Hannibal was gone . . .

'Will? Will! Answer me, Will! A team is on its way, we -'

"F-forgive me . . ."


End file.
